Cowboy Christmas Guardian

by Dana Mentink

  His father continued, “After the horses were sold, she left town for good. That was almost five years ago. Haven’t seen her since. Heard they divorced, but Joe doesn’t talk about it. He’s a proud man.”

  “Can you think of a reason why he’s so reluctant to allow Shelby to survey the mine?”

  His father raised an eyebrow. “Would you want a stranger coming onto the Gold Bar who could potentially give the green light to a mining operation?”

  He considered. “No, sir, but if the law says she has the right, I wouldn’t stand in her way.”

  “Joe will come around. He just needs to blow off steam about it so he feels like a man. Rough having your wife divorce you.” He sighed. “If your mom left me alone to raise the four of you, I’d probably go a little berserk, too.”

  Barrett chuckled. “Yeah, we’ve been more than a handful, haven’t we?”

  “That’s an understatement.” His dad ran a hand over the crown of his head. “All this white hair came directly from the Thorn sons’ shenanigans.” He laughed. “But you’re all God-fearing, honorable men who know right from wrong, so I guess we’ve done okay.”

  “Yes, sir, you have.”

  His father was never effusive, but Barrett could hear the pride in his dad’s voice. Tom Thorn was a tough man, quietly passionate about God, his family and major-league baseball. He would, and had, dropped boxes of food anonymously on people’s doorsteps if he heard they were hungry and stepped in to raise an unwanted child when the Thorns were struggling to keep the Gold Bar afloat. Barrett’s parents had always been and always would be his heroes.

  They were traveling through the sleepy main street, past the ancient oak tree outlined with colored lights when Barrett saw Ella Cahill entering the Sunrise Cafe coffee shop. “Dad, would you mind letting me out here? I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”

  “All right.”

  Barrett got out, noticing his father eyeing the window of the Treasure Trove Gift Store.

  “Uh, Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mama said to tell you that she doesn’t want any more aprons or scented candles for Christmas.”

  His father’s mouth quirked. “Oh, yes? And what does your mama want for Christmas then, Barrett? I’m sure she gave you explicit marching orders.”

  What did his mother really want? For her sons to be married, he thought. For the house to be filled with grandchildren, for a daughter-in-law she could love as much as she had adored Bree. He swallowed. “She said she’d settle for a new checkerboard since the other got water damaged up in the attic.”

  His father laughed and then grew thoughtful. “So she’s hankering for another family game night?”

  They hadn’t had one since Bree was killed. For a moment, Barrett was transported back in time, hearing the click of checkers, the crackling of the fire, Frank Sinatra singing holiday carols and the laughter of a family celebrating Christmas together. His mother was ready to resurrect some of that joy, to put the pain in its proper place.

  Was he ready? Part of him thought so. The grief would never go away but now it was not the core of his being. There was something else burning deep inside, though. Anger at Ken still flamed in his heart, forgiveness he could not offer. He was not ready and was not sure he ever would be.

  God help me, his soul whispered.

  His father looked at him as though he knew exactly what Barrett was thinking, the acid feelings about Ken. “All right,” he said softly. “I guess it’s time. Your mama will get her new checkerboard.” He hesitated. “You okay, son?”

  “Yes, sir,” Barrett said, even though his heart was very far from agreeing.

  TEN

  Barrett caught up with Ella as she finished ordering her frappe-latte-whatever-it-was and counting out her payment in coins. Aside from water, he’d only ever understood the values of coffee, black and as strong as he could get it, and ice-cold root beer on a sizzling summer day. The barista handed her the steaming beverage.

  She gazed at the drink with a look of rapture and he realized this was a treat for her. He wished he’d got there a moment earlier to purchase it for her. Money was tight for Ella and it had been ever since she’d been a kid. Nothing came easy for her or her sister, never had.

  “Ella. Got a minute?”

  She carefully snapped a plastic lid on her cardboard cup. “Sure, Barrett. Everything okay with the horses?”

  “Yeah, this is about another thing.”

  “Yeah?” A mischievous smile crossed her face. “Are you wanting some help tuning up your truck?”

  “No, thank you. I still have the notes you gave me from last time.” When it came to engines, Ella was as good as or better than him or any of his brothers, and that was saying something.

  “I, uh, I wondered what Shelby Arroyo was giving you the third degree about yesterday.”

  She tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. “Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it. She wasn’t rude or anything. It just surprised me since, I mean, your family isn’t exactly tight with the Arroyos.”

  “It’s okay. I was just wondering.”

  “She wanted to know if we had a history museum of some kind, where old documents are kept.”

  “Documents?”

  “Like topographical maps.”

  His stomach contracted. “Oh.”

  “So I told her to go talk to Shep. He’d be the guy to have them, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so. Thanks, Ella.”

  “As a matter of fact, I saw her driving through town heading in that direction about fifteen minutes ago.”

  Pulse jumping, he made his way to the door.

  “Barrett?”

  He turned.

  “Why are you so interested in Shelby Arroyo?”

  His face went hot, an unaccustomed feeling. Why was he interested? At that very moment, he could not come up with the words to explain it to himself or to her.

  “No reason,” he said.

  “Okay. Betsy and I are looking forward to the Christmas Eve bash at the Gold Bar.”

  Christmas meant a lot to Ella, he knew. “We are, too. See you later.” He felt her curious stare as he hastened out the door.

  * * *

  Shelby thought maybe she’d got the wrong directions, but the mailbox read 103 Lone Pine, which matched her Google search.

  Ella Cahill told her Shep ran a tourist spot, though this didn’t look particularly inviting. The small town was charming enough, every light along the main street twined with green garlands and pots of poinsettia plants clustered in front of the shops. Gold Country at Christmas time, perfect for a holiday postcard.

  But Shep’s place was a couple of miles out of town, set back from a road that could use some repaving. She saw no other vehicles on this lonely stretch. Peak season for folks looking for the gold mining experience was probably the summertime when they didn’t mind splashing around in the cold water.

  As she drew closer, she found a sign above the mailbox that read Gold Panning Adventures and Historic Gold Mining Museum. In the wide expanse of the front yard was a series of raised troughs and stacks of metal pans. There were no festive Christmas touches here.

  Her temple throbbed, a sign that a migraine was still threatening. She hadn’t helped things along by skipping breakfast in her haste to visit Shep. Her mother used to sneakily stow a granola bar in Shelby’s bag before she left for her marathon school/work sessions.

  In case you feel a headache coming on, she’d say. There would also be a couple of candy kisses there, too, in spite of Shelby’s tirades about how she wanted to eat healthy. Odd. Her craving for a candy kiss at that moment was intense. She shook it off.

  The office was a small wood-sided affair. At first she thought no one was home, until she notic
ed a glimmer of light from the side window. Hoping the proprietor would be more welcoming than Joe Hatcher had been, she approached the shop, letting herself inside to the jingle of a bell hung on the front door.

  No one manned the small counter. “Hello?”

  There was a cough from the back and a voice called out, “One minute.”

  Soon a man emerged, thin and tanned with a brown beard much fuller than Barrett’s and a thermos in his hand. “Lookin’ to try your hand at gold panning, miss?”

  “Actually, no. I called earlier and left a message. I’m interested in your history museum.”

  His faint smile disappeared. “Oh, yeah.”

  “I was told you have some old maps and I’d love to take a look.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She thought at first he had not understood her. “I’m Shelby.” She decided not to provide her last name since that didn’t seem to be earning her many fans in Gold Bar. He didn’t offer his own name.

  “Oh, I know who you are,” he said. After a few seconds, he added, “I’m a good friend of Joe Hatcher’s.”

  His face was as cold and hard as a rocky cliff. The hairs on the back of her neck went up. “I’m happy to pay for a ticket or something, in order to see the museum. I’m not asking for any favors.”

  “I won’t take your money.”

  He said it as if her money was somehow dirty. She forced her gaze right back at him. “Shep, I’m here to see the museum. That is the point of a museum, to be seen, isn’t it? I’m not going to cause any trouble. I just want to look at a few maps. Surely there’s no harm in that.”

  He didn’t answer.

  A warm flutter of anger started up in her belly. “I don’t have all day. Yes or no? Do I get in or not?”

  Still the stony stare.

  “All right. I’ll leave.” She went for the door. “And they say people in small towns are friendly,” she grumbled. She had almost cleared the threshold when he called out to her.

  “Down the path between the two pines. It’s on the right. It will be dark inside, so turn on the lights yourself.” Shep took his thermos and retreated to wherever it was he’d come from.

  Still steeped in disbelief, she quickly headed down the path as directed before he had time to change his mind.

  The museum was really just a long narrow building with a front and back door, which might have been a warehouse at one time or another. Now it was covered with aluminum siding and a sign on the front advertising Two Hundred Years of Gold Bar History.

  She pulled open the door and it squealed as if it had not seen a can of oil in a few decades. The inside was ripe with the smell of dust and mildew, which did not bother Shelby in the slightest. Groping for the light switch, she found the area partitioned into smaller spaces by floor-to-ceiling screens that formed little rooms.

  In the first area, she jumped when she saw what she thought was a man. It was a mannequin, dressed like a prospector, kneeling with a pan in his hands. Shep would probably have laughed himself silly at her fright. There was a display detailing the influx of would-be miners looking to strike it rich after James Marshall had made his historic discovery in the waters of the sawmill he was running with John Sutter. One man, one moment, had caused the entire country to go west.

  She continued on toward the second partition, which was an overview of the various groups who gave up their domestic lives and headed in droves to the goldfields. People of all races and situations had joined the mad rush for the metal.

  Shelby mused over the fake gold nugget on display for the museum goers. The geology geek in her marveled that gold was delicate enough to be hammered into the thinnest of wires and so versatile that it could be injected into the muscles of rheumatoid arthritis sufferers to ease their pain. The element was so rare that all the gold in the world could be compressed into an eighteen-yard cube and so common that every cubic mile of seawater contained twenty-five tons of gold. Plentiful and nearly impossible to extract.

  The science of it never failed to awe her. In truth, it was the reason she believed in God. There could be no other explanation for the minute order of the metals, minerals and crystals she’d spent years studying. He was there in every minuscule detail, master creator, His signature in the gorgeous order of it all.

  It puzzled her. Why would He so carefully create such marvels and yet allow His people, His most precious creations, to hurt each other so grievously? War, famine, abuse, neglect. If He was a loving father, why did He not intervene? And the most painful question of all? Why had he not helped Shelby see the truth instead of blaming her mother and making an enemy of the one person who loved her the most?

  And the veins of gold she so eagerly sought for her uncle? They would have to be pried out of the earth at great expense and trouble. For all its beauty, the quest for gold could be an ugly business. All the blood, death, sweat and toil that went into finding a paltry flake or two.

  Her own emotions surprised her. Checking her phone, she was surprised to find that she had frittered away more than thirty minutes. “What’s the matter with you?” Slipping her phone into her pack, she moved on.

  The next room was exactly what she’d been hoping for. Set against the back wall was a map of California, hand drawn to reflect the territory as it was during the late 1800s. Underneath was a set of long, flat drawers. With eager fingers, she pulled open the top one, finding it full of maps of the stagecoach routes. The next drawer was a hand-drawn map of the nearby towns. Encouraged, she was about to open the bottom drawer which was labeled Gold Bar, Topo.

  A sound brought her upright. The scuff of a shoe on the floor.

  “Shep?” There was no answer but her own thundering heartbeat. She waited, feeling silly. Had she imagined the sound? Just look at the map and get out of here. She crouched down and grabbed the bottom drawer, just as Joe Hatcher stepped into view. Her body went cold.

  He didn’t say a word, just stared at her, hands behind his back.

  She stared back, unwilling to let him see her fear, while her mind churned. He was blocking her exit from the small room. She could yell, but who would hear her? Only Shep, and he’d made his alliance clear. Her phone was in the small pack on her back.

  Okay. She would stand up to him and do whatever was necessary to get out of there unharmed.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  He shook his head. “You are one stuck-up lady. What am I doing here? This is my town. I thought I’d stop and see my friend Shep. You’re the stranger. Maybe you should tell me why you’re here?”

  “Visiting the museum. Isn’t that what strangers do?”

  His eyes glittered, the thick grizzled brows pulled together in a line. “You’re trying to pull the topo maps. I figured that would be your next step. Still researching my mine.”

  “My uncle’s mine.”

  “Didn’t you learn, lady? You and Barrett stuck down there in the water, almost drowned? It ain’t safe. All you’re gonna get from investigating is a coffin.”

  “Thank you for your concern.”

  “For some reason, Barrett seems to feel responsible for you. Ain’t you gonna feel guilty if he gets hurt traipsing after you?”

  She remembered how she’d felt leaving him behind in the tunnel. “I’m not responsible for Barrett Thorn.”

  He stepped closer. She caught the tang of dried sweat on his body. “Hasn’t your family done enough to Barrett?”

  That guilt rippled through her like an earthquake. She recalled her uncle’s words. They hate me, they hate Devon, and for all their religious spouting, that will never change.

  “The Thorns don’t want anything to do with me.” Straight from Barrett’s mouth.

  “Funny how Barrett turns up where you are.”

  She was tired of being in this uncomfortable standof
f. “I want to go, Mr. Hatcher. Let me pass.”

  He moved his hand to his belt and pulled out a knife. The blade gleamed in the low light. He smiled, stepped quickly forward and pressed the knife to her throat. She went still, paralyzed with fear.

  Hatred simmered in his eyes, his breath hot and sour on her face. “What’s the matter?” he grunted, the blade cold against her skin. “Scared?”

  Yes, her gut screamed. “No,” she said, forcing out the words. “Because you’re not going to kill me here in your friend’s museum, are you? That would be messy.”

  For a moment, his gaze flickered. She’d called his bluff.

  Then he leaned in closer until she could see every crease on his weatherworn face, the sheen of crazy nestled deep in his eyes. The breath froze in her lungs.

  He chuckled. “Sometimes life is messy, isn’t it?”

  ELEVEN

  Barrett figured since he was in town, he might as well stop by the church and see if they needed any handyman help for the soup kitchen. The kitchen was Bree’s brainchild, a biweekly offering of food to any in the area who needed it. Unfortunately, there were always plenty of hungry people. If Bree had her way, they would have offered food daily, but the small town didn’t have the manpower or finances to make that happen.

  The church folks were busy at the moment in a meeting, planning out the Christmas festivities, so he left without disturbing them.

  His father picked him up after dropping off Brownie. They drove along in silence, Ella’s question ringing in his ears.

  Why are you so interested in Shelby Arroyo?

  It made no sense. He had plenty to do. Mind your own business, his head told him. Got sixty horses and a family to take care of. Instead, he blurted out, “Dad, you mind taking the long way back, by Shep’s place?”

  “Got a sudden hankering to do some gold mining?”

  “No, sir. I heard from Ella Cahill that Shelby was heading there and, uh, I just got this bad feeling.”

  His father nodded. “All right.”